


but it started with an alright scene

by sakura_freefall



Series: 'cause the hardest part of this was leaving you [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Communication, Established Relationship, Ghost!taire, Grief/Mourning, Happy-ish..., Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Up, Past Argument, Sad with a Happy Ending, Well - Freeform, enjoltaire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29015733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakura_freefall/pseuds/sakura_freefall
Summary: Enjolras isn't cold. He's forgotten what it's like to be warm.It's a desperate drone of "Grantaire Grantaire Grantaire please please come back to me please Grantaire Grantaire Grantaire" and he's crying now, dammit, hands on the wet cold grass and it's not words anymore, just a string of sound from a language that doesn't sound real, and it's the only word he can remember until he can't say it anymore and he's crying it, or maybe just crying, or maybe nothing at all."Hey there Apollo."
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: 'cause the hardest part of this was leaving you [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118507
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	but it started with an alright scene

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp here's the next part lol
> 
> Basically Enjolras isn't sure if Grantaire's gone for good or not after the fight at the art museum and he's forced to confront some feelings he's been pushing back since Grantaire came back the first time.
> 
> It turns out okay though haha I can't really hurt them for too long :)

Enjolras stands at the gravestone, flowers hanging limply in his hands, the sun setting into a sea of grey behind him. He sits down against the rough stone, the wet grass soaking into his legs, and maybe he used to care.

It doesn't say enough.

Just his name, his birthday, and the line _At the shrine of friendship, never say die._ Combeferre might've complained about it being grammatically incorrect, but at the time he didn't give a shit. Still doesn't really.

It's thrown into a sharper relief by the fact that Enjolras hasn't seen Grantaire since their fight at the art museum. Enjolras doesn't know exactly how ghosts work- maybe he's not doing it on purpose, or maybe, heaven forbid, he was a figment of Enjolras's imagination. It's been three weeks, the summertime slowly dipping into fall, and Enjolras feels even worse than before.

"Grantaire, it's been exactly twenty-one days," he says to the nothing. He's come back every week, whispered every night, and Grantaire's never reappeared. Not once. Enjolras only spent fifteen days with the ghost and it's a pale imitation of what used to be, what should've been, but he'd trade just about anything to get even that back. "Grantaire, please. If you're still out there... if I'm not going fucking crazy, please just- please come back."

It's a little colder, especially since Enjolras forgot to bring a sweatshirt and how much time has he been out here? He doesn't care, really. The cold, at least, bites him, reminds him he's real, gives him something to feel that isn't horrible, crushing emptiness. Maybe, if he stands here long enough, he'll get so cold that he'll become another one of the marble statues standing like shadows around him. The sunset's not fiery tonight, it's just a faded-out version of pinkish-orangish-blue that feels like someone's scrubbed all the paint from it, leaving nothing behind but a stained canvas.

"Listen, Grantaire. I'm- I'm fucking sorry, okay?" he chokes. "Please just... please tell me it was real. That you're still here. You- you fucking promised! You promised, R! Please just- just come back, okay? If you're real and I'm not just... no, you're real, you have to- please. Come back to me." His fingers are numb now, and he rubs them against his jeans, leaning his head against the unyielding rock.

That's all there is. Rocks and dirt and trampled grass and a bouquet of hyacinths he bought from the farmers' market he dragged himself out to earlier today. And Grantaire, but he's six feet under the ground and maybe that's all he ever was, maybe the pills are working, and Enjolras doesn't want to think about it but he still does.

They're never going to get married. Never going to laugh and hug each other as the sun warms their faces, R won't ever spit dirty jokes from the bar at the Musain, Enjolras won't pick him up from his dance lessons or art club and they won't ever be anything like that again. Even if Grantaire is real, and does come back, it won't be the same, his voice will always sound like a fucking echo placed directly into his skull, quiet and airy and low, he's never going to spin Enjolras in circles around their kitchen while frying eggs in the morning.

Enjolras is asexual, very, and has no interest in going any further than kissing, but he still misses their kisses and late night cuddles while watching shitty horror films, and just the feeling of being alive and sharing it with someone who's also just as alive.

Because Grantaire is everywhere.

The fucking sofa he picked out, the bed that's sized for two, the video game console- Enjolras is shit at everything, even Minecraft, despite both R and Gavroche's claims that it's _impossible_ to be shit at Minecraft, especially in Creative Mode, all you have to do is click the fucking button, and-

It's his books. The stupid fucking comments he writes in Enjolras's political philosophy texts- complaining about some guy's hair, saying it's idealist and dumb, mocking but not really mad. His half-finished paintings. The broken stove boiler he's never bothered to get fixed. The carved wooden frog he bought on impulse while accompanying Enjolras to a fundraiser. His sweaters and T-shirts and scuffed platform boots.

Enjolras isn't cold. He's forgotten what it's like to be warm.

It's a desperate drone of "Grantaire Grantaire Grantaire please please come back to me please Grantaire Grantaire Grantaire" and he's crying now, dammit, hands on the wet cold grass and it's not words anymore, just a string of sound from a language that doesn't sound real, and it's the only word he can remember until he can't say it anymore and he's crying it, or maybe just crying, or maybe nothing at all.

_Hey there Apollo._

Enjolras jerks his head up so fast he cricks his neck and sure enough there he is, tousled hair and green sweatshirt and eyes that could almost be alive. Enjolras doesn't get up yet because he feels like if he moves then Grantaire will vanish back into the windy night. So instead he slumps against the gravestone sobbing and almost laughing in hysterics because maybe this is all a lie and it's a cruel fucking joke and it's all spiraling outwards now so no point in stopping it.

"Fucking- _hic-_ bastard, R, _hic-_ you fucking le-leave for- _hic-_ fucking weeks? You- you fucking- _hic-_ dick, you- _hic-"_

_I didn't mean to._

"You- _hic-_ you fucking- _hic-_ I thought y-you- _hic-_ damn you! Fucker!" Enjolras runs his fingers through his hair, over and over again, trying to collect himself.

_I'm sorry. I didn't do it on purpose, I swear. I just- I don't know. The past few weeks, I didn't-"_

"Shut _up."_ Enjolras is choking on his own spit now because it's so fucking insane and he's probably in shock but who the hell cares?

_Listen, Apollo, you're fucking freezing, how long have you been out here for?_

"I- I don't- are you even fucking real?"

_Is the sky real? Is life real? Are you real, or are you just a government simulation? Is anything real?_

"Fuck you, Grantaire!" he says to the night sky.

And the ghost wraps his arms around Enjolras and he can feel something that feels like a face pressing into his neck and he's cold but not the bitter kind that seeps into his skin from the chilly air. And he keeps the emotionless cold away and replaces it with something that feels almost comforting. _Enj, you're like an ice cube._

"Grantaire, don't leave me," he gasps, because if keeping Grantaire here means spending the entire night at the cemetery then so be it. "Grantaire, I loved you. Love you. Present tense."

_I love you too, Enjolras, but hon, you're gonna catch a cold if you stay out here, your hands are completely numb!_

"Not really," he protests. "I'm fine. Just don't- don't leave me again, please? I thought I'd lost you for good."

_Can't promise. But I can promise that I'm not ever going to leave forever. I don't know if this will or won't happen again, just please don't think I've left you behind. I'll never leave you behind._

"But y-you did! You- you left m-me! You le-left me h-here! R!"

_Hey now, shh, it's okay, c'mon now, you need to get up, we're going home and you're going to drink hot chocolate and we're gonna watch a dumb movie, shh, it's alright, I forgive you, no, don't cry, just c'mon, let's go home..._

"I'm- I'm scared that if I get up, you'll go away again."

_No, I'll be right here, but you need to get warm unless you want your nose to fall off, okay? C'mon, love. It's not too far._

Enjolras stands up stiffly, Grantaire's hand on his back. He sets the hyacinths gently on the ground, making sure they don't get crushed. _Hyacinths, you fucking cliché. I love them, by the way. But you don't need to. The symbolism's cool and all, but if you really want to show me your respect, let me pick the TV show for once. I'm sick of political sitcoms and long musicals._

"I'm- it's just- I don't want this to be a dream. I can't take it. Can't take it again."

_It's not a dream. I'm not a dream. Unless you say life's a dream, in which case this and everything is a dream. But for now let's get you home._


End file.
